Nocturnal arousals
by JasNutter
Summary: A sexually frustrated Sherlock and a subconsciously reciprocating John.


Dream

Noun, often attributive \ˈdrēm\

-Series of thoughts, images, or emotions occurring during REM sleep.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes, if asked to do so, could pull out massive amount of data on virtually anything, provided said data having not been unimportant enough for deletion, out of the gigantic hard drive that was his brain. He could state, for example, citing the information down to the published date - no less - that sexual dreams come about 10% of the time in many years of dreaming and are more prevalent in young to mid-teens. 8% of people of both genders have dreams of sexual content, occasionally resulting in orgasm or nocturnal emission. A drastic decrease in daily calorie intake result in fewer nocturnal emissions, Sherlock knew, and the nicotine patches he was so utterly fond of were said to intensify dreams. It was probably true, he thought, twitching uncomfortably under the rarely used silk sheets, for a dream with a sexual theme as intense as the one he'd just awoke from hadn't made an appearance since those embarrassing early puberty days.

He wasn't perturbed by the insistently throbbing hardness tenting the cool sheet, for, though he wasn't one to indulge in ordinary biological necessities, biological necessities made themselves announced once in a while and he took care of them, although he found doing so mildly distasteful. It wasn't his wildly thumping heart or the sheen of sweat on his flushed skin either. No matter what his brother chose to believe, he wasn't alarmed by carnal acts. What exactly had the peculiar genius running his slender hands through his curly mess of dark hair in confusion was the presence of a certain Doctor John H. Watson in the dream, devoid of his hideous jumper – devoid of all clothing for that matter – stark naked and on top of his own stark nakedness, sucking, biting and licking and _rubbing _against him. He couldn't help the eager twitch of his penis or the growl that rumbled from his chest as the image floated across his mind.

It wasn't a heterosexual crisis that brought about the confusion: he had known he was interested in the same sex before he'd even considered heterosexuality. However, arousal was not frequent and there had been one sexual partner in uni, another young genius who'd gone off to somewhere in Europe – he'd never bothered to find out where – leaving him for his lack of sentimentality.

John, his flat mate, his only friend, the man who called him brilliant in the world where he was a freak, was nothing like the young genius who'd once brought his penis to full attention, like it was standing now. Slow on the uptake, John was sharp with his tongue, (and rather skilled...in his dreams at least), but his mind was average, not exactly attractive. John, a dangerous man, amazingly skilled with guns, hidden under a disguise of a repulsively cuddly jumper. John, who had killed for him after mere hours of having met him. John, who enjoyed tea as much as he enjoyed adrenalin. John, who he need, who needed _him_.

He couldn't stop the moan from escaping.

Somewhere in his hormone addled mind, Sherlock knew he must push the sudden attraction away, store it in a secure corner of the gigantic mind palace and lock it, if not delete it. It vaguely registered that John, with his increasing stream of female conquests, would not reciprocate the sexual desire, if his vehement denials of being involved with Sherlock and the defensiveness of his heterosexuality were anything to go by. However, thoughts of the solid naked body against his own, the hardness pressing into his, the chapped lips on his sweaty skin, and those tanned, calloused, manly hands all over his-

He needed a shower.

He threw the sheet, which did barely anything to hide his erection, over his heated naked body and walked out of the bedroom he barely used. To his surprise, John was already at the kitchen table reading what looked like a medical journal, the early morning light shining on his freshly showered hair. Sherlock stared as his stomach flipped.

John, seeming to sense being watched, looked up at his staring flat-mate, his amazing hands folding the journal as he smiled. Sherlock felt all the blood leave his intestines and the 'butterflies' made their appearance.

"Found you actually asleep for the first time- didn't want to wake you", he said getting up and walking to the refrigerator. Sherlock watched as the hand gripped the handle and tugged. The shower would need to be cold, he decided, to redirect blood from-

"Tea?" sounded John's voice as he bent over in the pursuit of milk.

He needed a wank.

* * *

John took the grunt that came from his flat mate as he rushed towards the bathroom as a yes, and started making toast and tea both for himself and the very mad, and very rude genius. He moved about the kitchen, looking for a knife, when a distinct moan drifted from the bathroom, causing him to blush. He didn't notice his elevated heart rate, and didn't question his slight hardness that came with the mental picture of his flat mate tossing off. Not yet.

* * *

**Please review :) I was thinking of writing a sequel where John finally questions it. Tell me what you think. **


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